


the speed of sound

by paintngoldtrash



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, i mean historically these two were gay as fuck so who knows, its the 1700s what do you really expect tho, mainly fluff, not historically accurate, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:00:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8534050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintngoldtrash/pseuds/paintngoldtrash
Summary: At what speed will I have to live to be able to see you again? Alternatively titled: two times John Laurens couldn’t catch up to Alexander Hamilton, and one time he slowed him down enough so he could.





	

It was common knowledge that Alexander Hamilton was on a different level than everyone else; that was why George Washington had hired him, after all. He was an admirable man, and he definitely worked for what he’d got and then some, it was just hard to keep up with him sometimes. His brain went faster than everyone else’s; though, that didn’t necessarily mean he made better judgement calls; sometimes John believed that meant he made  _ worse  _ judgement calls- being constantly scatterbrained, thinking about everything at the same time, meant there wasn’t much room for him to worry about whether or not something was on a high moral standpoint. Alexander was also incredibly strong-willed, laced with perseverance, and had a very,  _ very  _ short temper; combine that and his inability to keep his mouth shut, and he got himself into a lot of incredibly shitty, very avoidable situations. Sometimes John chalked it up to Alexander being young, but sometimes he worried about him, especially when, somehow, he dragged John along for the ride- though, John knew deep down that he chose to go with Alexander, and he would even if he stopped being asked to come with him; John loved Alexander, and would do anything he could to protect him from his own unrelenting brain. 

 

Which was why John ended up in questionable situations, such as duels with Charles Lee, who was recently appointed general by George Washington. Looking back, John would say that he could see the growing tension, and probably should have done something about it, but there was something about how fiery Alexander got that made him reluctant to stop him, even after the duel was suggested; John, in a blind act of ignorance, didn’t think that Alexander would go through with it. 

 

He wasn’t really sure when the ongoing fight with Charles Lee began; he’d known that tensions were high as the war raged on, and that Washington himself was incredibly despondent, but Alexander seemed to have a personal vendetta against Lee. John supposed that it wasn’t anything Lee had done (though he hadn’t been a good general by any means), it was just that Alexander was angry that  _ he  _ wasn’t promoted. Then, of course, Lee had began bad-mouthing Washington against his better judgement, which didn’t do much to help him gain Alexander’s trust or support. Washington had told Alexander to leave the matter rest, that “history will prove him wrong,” but Alexander was angry- and granted, so was John, perhaps more so than Alexander. John was the one to suggest that someone should hold Lee to his words, after all, and he’d technically been the one to volunteer, but after all the anger faded away and they were lying together uncomfortably, hugging each other for warmth against the frigid December night, he’d proposed dropping the duel. Of course, Alexander being Alexander, hadn’t wanted to back down, and John let his warm breath against the back of his neck and his hands wrapped tightly around his torso draw him in, and he eventually reluctantly agreed that yeah, the duel was a good thing after all. Alexander was very good at persuasion, and by the time the duel began, at a little after three the next day, John was as angry as he was when he’d originally heard the things Lee had said about Washington. They were in a grassy area of the woods, covered in snow from the frost the previous night; John had naturally chosen Alexander as his second, and Lee had brought along Major Evan Edwards, a man John knew little, if not nothing, about. 

 

Time around John seemed to slow, seconds turning to minutes, as he took his ten paces before turning and firing. It was only at the sound of two gunshots, one right after the other, that it began to speed up around him, going almost too fast to be normal; there were two shouts, and Lee doubled over, and suddenly John was a foot from him on his knees, asking him if he was okay in a concerned tone. After nodding and explaining that he’d presumed the injury worse than it actually was, he suggested another round, but was quickly shot down by Edwards;  _ you’re hurt, _ he’d said,  _ you need medical attention,  _ and then dragged him off. When they’d left, Alexander had wrapped his arms around John, whose arms hung limply at his sides, the pistol he used thrown somewhere in the new blanket of snow that had begun to fall around them. The pair, arms still wrapped around each other, slid down to the ground, leaning against each other for support and warmth. At some point, John had began to cry; only a few stray tears made their way onto his cheeks, but Alexander still hugged him tighter and whispered reassuring words against the sliver of exposed skin on his neck. 

 

When they got back to the tents that had been set up the previous night, arms wrapped tightly around each other's torsos and grim looks on their faces, Washington was waiting for them, arms crossed and steam coming out of his ears. John bid Alexander goodbye, whispering a  _ good luck  _ against his ear that made Alexander physically shiver, before heading back to their tent, where their other friends, Hercules Mulligan and Marquis de Lafayette were waiting to hear about the duel. John just shoved them away and slid into their sleeping bag; it was cold without Alexander. 

  
  


When Alexander finally came back to their tent, the sun was just beginning to set about the trees, and a new layer of snow had blanketed everything. It crunched under his boots that he slid off before he climbed into the sleeping bag with John, and they both fell asleep quickly, encompassed by each other. 

  
  


The morning came with a fervor, as if it had something to prove, shining through the thin tent and waking the both of them up; they wrapped their coats around their bodies and stumbled, bleary-eyed, out of their tent, boots only half on their feet. They were the only two awake, and Alexander dragged John down the road to the river; it was icy, but still running, and they sat down in the snow and huddled against each other, watching it for a few moments before Alexander turned to face John as if he had something of incredibly significance to say. 

 

All Alexander did was peck John’s lips before getting up and running off back to camp, leaving John in the snow, confused; he’d sat for another ten minutes pondering what Alexander had done, before deciding that it was him just being young and naive- he’d hadn’t had a father to explain to him the rights and wrongs of the world, after all. 

 

When John got back to the tent, Alexander was huddled over what John assumed was a letter, writing away. It made John smile, but it also made him feel a strange sense of longing in his chest that he couldn’t place; it was as if he was hollow. He bit his bottom lip and stepped back out of the tent, pushing any thoughts about it away as Washington said something about beginning to move again.

 

\----------

 

The fire across the room was burning brightly, and Alexander was sat at the desk, as per usual. It was late, about eleven at night, and yet Alexander showed no signs of stopping; he often wrote far into the night when he could, and John laid in their shared cot, watching the shadows from the wall flicker across his face and the wall behind him as his hand moved. There was a beauty to the way he wrote- his lips parted just slightly, his eyes squinting at the parchment and his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. It made the longing in John’s chest come back; he’d decided that it wasn’t just longing, however, but something more, as if something in his hollowed-out chest was pulling him, propelling him, towards Alexander. He always resisted the urge, the longing, but it never went away; it seemed to grow stronger with each day that passed. 

 

After a couple moments, Alexander’s quill came to a stop, and he set it down, turning to look at John lying in the bed with the blankets pulled up around his chest. There was a moment of hesitation that John could sense in the air; everything was slow again, seconds acting as minutes, just like it was the day of the duel, and the room was suddenly hot and sticky like an August day, the palpable atmosphere smoky and heavy against John’s lower half. Suddenly Alexander was up against John, lips moving against lips, and it was all moving too fast for him to take in; he could feel his own lips succumbing to Alexander’s forceful ones, and he fleetingly wondered if they’d locked the door, before forgetting all about someone walking in or their lack of privacy in the room they were granted without charge because they were soldiers. Alexander kissed like he did anything else: forcefully, passionately, and strongly. Shoving John onto his back and climbing onto him, Alexander only broke their kiss to untie the overcoat he wore on particularly cold nights from around his waist, and John couldn’t help but feel like he was going to regret what they were doing in the morning. 

 

Alexander kissed him once more, and all his worries were forgotten. 

  
  
  


When the morning eventually did come, neither of them slept a wink; they’d kissed for a while, ending up shirtless, sweaty, and read in the face, but John had the mind enough to stop them both before they did something they regretted. Instead, they sat up and talked about their hopes and dreams- which, perhaps, was even more personal than what John presumed Alexander wanted to do. 

 

Alexander explained to John that he knew he had a problem with recklessness- a strange statement to come as he laid his head on John’s bare chest- and that he wanted to be able to change the world for the better, somehow. He revealed to John how his mother died and his cousin committed suicide, and the effects the hurricane had on him (he still couldn’t handle thunderstorms)- revealing almost everything about himself that he’d hid away for fear of repercussions. John had known Alexander had grown up poor and without a father, but he hadn’t known the extent of Alexander’s childhood- it made his heart ache, in a different way than longing; he wanted to wrap his arms around Alexander and never let him go, keeping him protected from all harm. John revealed a few hidden facts about himself to Alexander as well; how his father used to beat him, how his mother drowned herself just to get away, and how he was practically disowned by his father for expressing his distaste in a God. He didn’t disclose the news about him having a wife and a child- how could he, after such a night! Alexander would never look at him again! 

 

Once the sun had finally come up, Alexander had made his way to the desk once more, hand wrapped firmly around his quill and a resilient look in his eyes. John should’ve expected as much, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling cold as he rolls over and lets a fit of sleep overtake him, wishing he could understand anything that goes on in Alexander’s head; him still being a mystery, even after a night of them revealing their most personal of secrets. 

 

He felt Alexander crawl into bed with him two hours later; the bed creaked, protesting against their combined weight, and he moved his body close to John’s kissing a section of exposed skin just behind his ear. 

 

John rolled over, eyes staring into Alexander’s brown eyes, almost pleading with him, but John didn’t know what he was asking for. 

 

“I had to finish something imperative for Washington,” he whispered, his voice low and thick, “But it’s done now.” John nodded, as if that was what he was asking all along, and they kissed once more before pulling each other closer than seemed possible and falling asleep as the fire died into hot ashes and embers. 

 

\----------

 

They were stationed in different camps not long after that fateful night; Alexander stayed with Washington and his troops, as his right hand man, and John was sent farther south. They sent letters, of course, but it wasn’t the same; John missed the feeling of Alexander’s skin, soft and warm against his palm. They’d gone  _ all the way,  _ as one would put it, right before John had to leave. It was almost Alexander’s going away present for John, because he was “too poor to buy John a real gift,” he’d said; John hadn’t cared- all he’d cared for was Alexander’s lips pressed tightly against his own. 

 

Thinking about it made John’s face heat up; it’d felt so right that night, but as the light shone onto them the next morning and he truly understood what they’d done, he’d felt sick, climbing up from their shared bed to vomit into the pail across the room; he wasn’t religious, and they’d kissed before, going as far as using their hands to get each other off, but this was _different_ somehow, in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. Of course, after Alexander woke up, concern etched onto his face, and John promised that he was okay, and Alexander flashed him a crooked smile, everything felt fine again. He felt okay again, and was reassured that what they’d done wasn’t wrong- after all, how could something that felt so _wonderful_ be so wrong, anyway? Alexander pulled John closer in bed, lips whispering soothing words between faint kisses pressed against his shoulder and neck, slow and leisurely. It was very unlike Alexander, but maybe that was a good thing; Alexander had a bad habit of going too fast for anyone, leaving them in the dust, so maybe slowing down was a good change. It was calming, at least; John felt like he and Alexander finally were on the same level- as if Alexander had slowed down enough to let John catch up to him, even if it was only for that one moment.

 

It didn’t last for long, however; by the time John had finished washing up that morning, Alexander was back to writing, only stopping to go with him to where he was to be picked up by a carriage taking him to where he was stationed. 

 

They’d only had a couple months together,  _ truly  _ together, but John knew he’d remember it forever. 

  
And it was the last thing to flicker across his mind on the battlefield that fateful day- and what a delightful way to die, with your best memories flashing before your eyes? 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
